


It Used to be All Right

by fancyday



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, Friendship/Love, Gen, Love Confessions, Love Letters, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Misses John Watson, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is Alone, Sherlock is a Mess, Tired Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyday/pseuds/fancyday
Summary: Set after the Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock is tired and alone and writes what eventually turns into a kind of love letter to John.When I was still at home my heart used to clench at the thought of ever being without John again. Now I am alone. That used to be all right. Before John. It isn’t, these days.





	It Used to be All Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tereomaori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tereomaori/gifts).



> Written for tereomaori's birthday.  
> I am not a native speaker, so please feel free to point out any errors.

I am tired. I’m tired to the bone. My eyes burn and my head aches and I’m dizzy. Sometimes my vision swims. But I function. I do, and that is enough. I start feeling awake when I am working, and there is always work to do. The network I am trying to dismantle is vast. Sometimes I think that I will not find a way out again. I am alone. That used to be all right. 

The one thing that does not leave me is the headache. I can’t make it go away. It hits me. Sometimes hard, sometimes it’s just knocking. But always there, reminding me of the tiredness I pretend I do not feel. If John were here, things would be different. He would tell me how stupid it is. I know it is, but I can’t stop. He’d tell me that I will feel much the better for a bit of sleep. But John is not here.

John thinks I’m dead. I think I’m beginning to think so, too. How can you tell, anyway? I want to get back but I can’t, and I can only try not to think too much. I do try that. But I have never been any good at that. It isn’t helping and you always think the things you’re not supposed to think.

My eyes hurt. It’s too loud here. It makes the headache worse. 

Coffee doesn’t help. Not anymore. Other things would. Sometimes, other things do. You wouldn’t approve, John. Sorry. 

It’s been a year, almost. Lately things have been getting worse instead of better. I want to go home. This is wearing me out. Everyone and everything is unfamiliar. I have to find my way through new countries and new cities and new languages and new people. You always were so clear for me, John.

I hope for him it isn’t how it is for me. Because this is a bit not good. Not good at all, actually.

When I was still at home my heart used to clench at the thought of ever being without John again. Now I am alone. That used to be all right. Before John. It isn’t, these days. The ache hasn’t gone. I miss John so much that I feel sick. You’d think it gets easier. It doesn’t. Sometimes I think it’s not only the absence of John but also the presence of the wrong people that hurts so much. John is soothing and all the new people are rough. Coarse. This city feels all wrong.

John used to see to food. I hate having to think about food. I have to, now and then, these days. It’s so draining. I need energy for my task. Because once I’ve finished, I will go back. That is one possible ending for this story. 

I do dream about falling. I never used to dream. Now I do. One reason for not sleeping. When I do, there is the fall, far too often. Even though I know the landing. The ending.

All the new languages make me think in associations. It’s quicker. German words for small round things, for example, often start “kn”. _Knopf_ , _Knospe_ , _Knauf_. No one ever notices. The Germans do pronounce the k before the n. You can’t do that in English. We lost that consonant cluster at some point. I don’t like the word cluster. There are clusters in music, too. Not that they sound very nice. Too many notes. 

John and I, we were harmony, though. 

It took me a long time to realise I’m just tired. I was wondering what was wrong with me. I don’t have time to feel tired. I have to subvert every plan Moriarty left me. A large and sinister legacy. I am the sole recipient. Infiltrating the network, at the moment. I am successful in the system I am trying to destroy. 

Restrain my thoughts and my sadness and my anger. How long can I muster the energy to control what I feel. Sometimes the tears rise from sheer tiredness. I heard some jazz the other day. “A cup of tears streaming from his eyes.” I liked the music and the lyrics cut through the bone. I never used to listen to lyrics before. 

I need to stop pitying myself.

I think I may be in love with John. I think I may have been a little bit in love with you all this time, John, can you believe it? Or maybe not just a little bit. 

It’s definitely no good thinking about this now. What can I do. There it is. This does not feel liberating. 

The clusters, the chord clusters, I don’t like the colours they create in my head. Everything about John makes me see beautiful colours. His name and all the numbers that belong to him, like his birthday. I never told him about my synaesthesia, so he probably doesn’t know that he creates good colours. The colours depend on the vowel sounds of the words, I think. I’m missing the colours in foreign languages. Colourless. Though the sounds can be expressive. Kn small and round, gr dangerous and bleak. Grim. _Grimm_ , _grausam_ , _grauenvoll_ , _grau_. Grey. Quick associations. Too quick for me to notice, sometimes. I’ll know that words starting “mel-” mean something to do with honey and sweetness in a number of languages. It is a while, though, before I can trace it back to the Ancient Greek word for honey bee, μέλιττα or μέλισσα.  
Quick associations for John: jumpers (it bears repeating), blue eyes, tea, sentiment. 

This morning (I hadn’t slept) there was a beautiful sunrise when I crossed the river. John, incurable romantic, would have liked it. The realisation that I not only love John but am in love with him hurts. More than it helps. All of John’s good colours add up to a beautiful spectrum, nuances, a rainbow, that soothes my senses when I see it. Soothes my senses when I see. Sibilants. Sybil and prophecy. I prophesy that I will be able to leave this city tomorrow, or the day after. But that will not enable me to go home. Not yet. 

New country, new city, new people, new language tomorrow, or the day after.

The piano melody from that jazz piece stays in my head. Sometimes I self-consciously close my eyes to listen. It’s hard to hear over the headache. Good colours. Sad, though. What isn’t. 

You were an oasis for me, John. Now the thought of you is an oasis in my mind. But the more I try to remember the more I forget. It drives me – not mad. Sad. What isn’t.  
I. You. We. We should be together. I am realising something I have tried to deny all my life. I was never meant to be alone. I’m no good at it. I forget things you would consider important. Sleep. Food. And the like. I have no one to show off to and I get insufferable and there is no one to suffer my insufferableness. That is a strange word. 

Well. Of course I could go into all the details of what I miss about you, now. But I become increasingly dizzy and I can’t see properly. And it’s not just your silly jumpers and your nagging and the way you wink that I miss. It’s the whole you and the feeling your presence used to give me. I miss it a lot now that it’s gone. I realised today that now it’s spring here and the birds are singing again. I never noticed the birdsong was gone, but I felt glad today when I realised it was back. It’s the other way round with you. I felt perfect when you were there, and now that you’re gone I feel your absence. Though actually, of course, it’s me who’s gone. I left. Would there have been other ways? I don’t know. That is another thing I try not to think about. But I’m gone and you’re still there. You’re where you should be, and where I will always picture you, even if. But no. 

I miss you. There. I have never said that to anyone before. John. How did this become a letter. This was never meant to be a letter. It’s not a letter. But I talk to you in it anyway. I will have to burn this tomorrow, probably. Handwriting. Could give me away. 

Another thing, John: If ever I get back, it will be a joy to be with you again. If I don’t, it will have been a joy to have met you at all. Life is a lot better with you than without you. This sounds prosaic considering I just found out I really am in love with you. But it’s true. Also, I think you’re better than me in many respects, and you will manage. With or without me. I do love you. That bears repeating even better than your jumpers. That was an odd sentence. 

I might sleep a bit tonight. And tomorrow, I will go on.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics referred to are from Benjamin Clementine's "Winston Churchill's Boy" and I got the idea about words starting "kn" meaning something small and round from an interview with Daniel Tammet. Hope you liked it:)


End file.
